


004 - Pick a Tune or Move Along, Love

by storiesaboutvan



Category: Catfish and the Bottlemen (Band)
Genre: F/M, Reader-Insert
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-19
Updated: 2019-01-19
Packaged: 2019-10-12 13:57:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17468885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/storiesaboutvan/pseuds/storiesaboutvan
Summary: Filling the prompt “You meet van in a bar and you’r both drunk and hit it off but you don’t know about catb? Smutty/sexy please :)”





	004 - Pick a Tune or Move Along, Love

You vaguely remember saying "yeah, just one, alright" to your friends, to which they erupted in cheers. You were trying to be better and not drink as much and eat less junk food and all that. You are, however, not working tomorrow… so…

"Alrightalrightalright, whoever can shot it and keep a straight face gets the next jukebox pick, yeah?" you bet your friend. She closes her eyes, tilts her head back and grins. You take it as a yes. Salt. Tequila. Lime. Easy. You win, and you hold your hand out for coins. She's still grimacing as you waltz to the jukebox.

You are flicking through the options with your head pressed against the glass holding up the weight of your very drunk body. "Nope… nope… nope…" you mutter to yourself.

"You're gonna need to pick a tune or move along, love," someone behind you says. You aim to spin around gracefully, but instead you kind of just roll 180 degrees. Your head stays attached to the jukebox. Now you lean on it backwards. You expected to fight him, but he's too pretty. He's in black skinnies and a long sleeve button up. His hair is messy and sits long enough that you could probably hold onto it if you had to. In like, a fight, of course. His eyelashes are long. Very long. And, he is grinning. No. You still want to fight him.

"Love?!" you question. He stops grinning and his head tilts to the side. He nods. "That is no way to talk to someone, maaaaaaate. It's 2016!"

"Seventeen," he corrects quickly, smirking. 

"My point exactly."

You stare at each other for a second. Or two. Then he moves towards you, to the jukebox. He's standing right in front of you. The hem of your skirt is touching his thighs, and your arms crossed over your front are pressing into his chest.

"Well, I'm sorry," but it sounds like 'sorreh,' "let me make it up to you by helping you pick a song," he says nodding to the glowing machine behind you.

"I'm not moving. It's warm," you tell him. It's not a lie; the jukebox is warming your lower back and it is comforting.

"I can work around you," he says. He moves his arms either side of you to control the buttons that move the CDs. You let your crossed arms drop by your sides. It means that he presses closer to you. He is a foot taller, and can easily see over you. He smells good and is warm and is humming a tune you don't recognise and you don't even realise that you've let your head fall forward so that your forehead is pressed against his chest. He doesn't seem to mind, though.

"Killers, or Monkeys?" he asks.

"Huh?"

He chuckles and tips your head up with his right index finger. His eyes are very blue.

"Do you want to listen to The Killers, or Arctic Monkeys?" he asks again.

"Killers," you respond. He smiles, quickly kisses your forehead and nods. He clicks a few buttons, the unmistakable sound of Mr Brightside starts to play, and he takes a step back.

"You're welcome… love," he says and walks away.

Never in the history of anything, has anyone ever been more shook. You breathe out and look around. Your friend is still at the bar and she's watched the whole thing, and the look on her face… You walk to her, purposefully not looking around for the boy.

"Ummmmmmm…" she starts.

"No. Nope. Don't. I can't. Leave me alone," you say. She laughs, nods, hands you a drink, and leads you back to the table where your friends are.

 

…

 

You're at the bar, and the bartender is flirting with you. It's obvious. You know it's obvious because a girl who comes to get a drink is served quickly, gives you a look like 'ha, good luck,' and moves along. The bartender is being very dramatic about your drink. You just wanted a beer, and now he is making a pink and green something. You're waiting patiently when you notice the boy from before, and who you assume to be a friend next to him, talking to another bartender. They're clearly friends. The bartender opens three bottles and hands them two. He then walks over to your bartender and whispers something to him. He looks over at the boy and his friend, then at you. Then, he pours the pink and green something into a sink and goes and serves someone else. You're ready to start a second fight when the boy's bartender friend hands you the third bottle.

"Care of Van and Larry," he says and points over to the boy.

"Which is which?" you ask.

"Larry on the right, Van on the left," he tells you, smiling like he knows something, then walks away.

Van. The boy's name is Van.

You take the beer and return to your friends, not looking up at anybody.

 

…

 

You've been dancing for at least five songs, and it's at least 1 am. You tell a friend you're going out for air, and make your way through the crowd of bodies to the beer garden. It's a pub, but it feels like a club right now, and that's not your scene.

The garden is equally busy, so you continue to navigate through people until you're out on a side street. It's quiet and cool.

"You stalking me, babe?"

No fucking way. Van is standing on the other side of the road opposite you. He is leaning against the wall, holding a cigarette and a bottle of water. You walk over to him and take the water. You drink and he watches you, and you watch him watch you.

"That's mine," he says.

"Sharing is caring," you reply. You hand the bottle back and turn to go back inside. Or, you pretend to go back inside.

"Wait!"

There you go.

He drops the smoke, crushes it under his boot, and takes the few steps to meet you in the middle of the road. He holds out a hand to you.

"Dance with me?" he asks. You audibly scoff. He waits, smiling. He's in a jacket now, and it's beautiful. It's expensive. It doesn't really match the aesthetic of messy haired boy smokes in an alleyway. A gift, maybe. You take his hand and he launches into a weird slow dance in which he drags you around the street. You laugh, almost hysterically.

"There's no music! What are you doing?!" you manage to say, between laughs. He's grinning. He starts to sing. You're dancing to an a cappella rendition of Champagne Supernova. You stop laughing. He's good. Really, really good. He slows down when he notices that you're not laughing anymore. He takes a step back and looks at you confused.

"What?" he asks.

"You can sing," you tell him.

"You'd hope so, huh?" he replies. You shrug at him, confused. "That's what I… I'm in a band. That's my job." You study his face. Nothing. Not nothing, but not recognition. He steps back to you and takes your hand again. You continue to dance, but he isn't singing.

"There is still no music," you prompt. He looks down at you and grins.

"Are you asking me to sing?" He spins you outwards, then twirls you back into him. You nod.

"I can pay you for the show," you offer, "I can pay you… my name… or two orange Tic Tacs… or some lip balm…"

"What's your name?" he interrupts. You tell him. He doesn't start singing. You look at him expectedly. Van steps back and leads you back across the road. You lean against the wall, and he stands in front of you. He puts one hand against the wall, next to your head. He's close.

"What's your band's name?"

"Catfish and the Bottlemen,"

"There's gotta be a story in that," you say, impressed. He nods but doesn't say anything. With his free hand, he starts to trace invisible lines between the freckles on your arm. Slowly, his hand moves up and across your collar bone. Then, he runs a finger down your nose and across your lips. You stop breathing.

Van leans in and kisses you. He stands up, not leaning on the wall anymore. He wraps one hand around the back of your neck, fingers laced through your hair. The other hand sits on your hip, loosely, waiting until he can move it elsewhere. You snake one arm around Van's waist, pulling him against you. One of his legs is bent, and if you push yourself against him, it sits between your legs comfortably. He kisses you hard, and as his tongue rolls across yours, your knees go weak. The hand on your hip has moved back to tracing lines across your arm, down your arm, your hand, and your fingers are entwined with his.

The hand holding, that's what gets you. You moan into his mouth, to which he replies with a light bite to your bottom lip. You've never smiled and kissed at the same time, but it's happening now and it's cute as fuck. Van doesn't let go of your hand, and he moves your arm so it's pinned behind your back. You stay like that for a long while; happily stuck between the wall and Van. Eventually his lips move away from yours, and he kisses your jawline gently, then down your neck. You start to squirm. He lets go of your hand, which automatically relocates to his hips. Van's free hand moves up and down your thigh.

"Y/N," Van's breathy voice in your ear, "I want… Are you… I'm…," he tries and you giggle at the trying, "I want you." You look up and he's smiling and he's cute and his pupils are huge and you feel like if he moves the pressure of his body away from yours you will die. You can't convey that in words. You nod. "Yeah?" he confirms. You nod again and wrap your arms around his neck. He grins. You kiss and it's soft. Van isn't concentrating on the kissing though, he's focused on where his hands are. One is still tangled in your hair, and you're happy about that. If he moves it, you plan on complaining. His other hand is under your skirt.

Slowly his fingers trace along the seam of your underwear, then they move over it, lightly brushing across you. You push your hips up, and move yourself firmly into his hand. Van chuckles, "We've got time," he whispers.

"Nooooo," you whine, "we're in an alley and someone is going to come out here any second."

"Well then," he says and lets go of you all at once and takes a step back. It physically hurts. "Should we maybe go back to mine? It's just 'round the corner."


End file.
